


The Piano Room

by phoenix28IICF



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, But like reeeeeallly slow, Emotional Comfort, F/M, Fetus Direction, Fluff, High School AU, I promise it's sweet and not as depressing and dark as these tags are making them seem, M/M, Musician Harry, Physical Abuse, SO MUCH FLUFF it's actually not okay, Sexual Abuse, Slow Burn, Smut, sixth form AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2019-10-21 22:03:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17650730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenix28IICF/pseuds/phoenix28IICF
Summary: "'Your love is a symphony, all around me, running through me. Your love is a melody, underneath me, running to me.' Louis reads the words again, and again and then tears his eyes away, unable to look at the words anymore. He feels like he has had all the air sucked out of his lungs. And then he throws the piece of paper in the rubbish bin and walks away."For Harry Styles, music is his entire life. Each person is a new melody, either one to be forgotten or to be remembered, and Louis Tomlinson is turning out to be that one annoying tune that keeps getting stuck in his head, no matter how hard he tries not to let it.A sixth-form AU where Harry is a shy, socially anxious and emotionally damaged boy with a singular focus: get into the Royal Academy of Music and away from the suffocating confines of his Doncaster home and Louis is his loud, exuberant, popular self who learns about heartbreak, sacrifice and love for the first time.





	1. Feather-light

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! Hope you're all doing well and looking after yourselves. I would definitely recommend listening to the pieces of music mentioned because they've been chosen for a reason (and they are just gorgeous beautiful pieces of music imho). Note that this is set in the English school system (whereby the last two years consist of AS and A levels) - if you need any explanation please let me know in the comments and I would be happy to provide. 
> 
> Also, warnings about sexual/physical abuse but promise I will give a TW in the chapters where they occur and provide a recap if you need.  
> I am currently writing this because I'm procrastinating but I'm currently in the midst of my last term of my last year at Uni so my schedule is completely insane. As such, it may take me longer than usual to update, but I will try to do so as regularly as possible. Bear with me pleeease.  
> Finally, comments, kudos and shares are so so encouraging. Honestly, comments especially are what motivate me to continue writing. Constructive criticism is of course always welcome.  
> All my love  
> Phoenix  
> x

Harry’s slender fingers flit effortlessly over the keyboard, his shoulders hunched and his head bowed in concentration. The music flooding the dimly-lit room is Chopin’s nocturne Op. 9 number 2, and if you were to close your eyes for just a moment, you would be able to see clearly in your minds-eye a ballerina gliding gracefully across a half-lit stage, the tulle of her tutu-skirt bobbing almost imperceptibly as she _bourrés_ from one side of the stage to the other, her delicate arms painting graceful arcs in the air around her. The melody he plays is a familiar one; a piece he has played a hundred times at least, the trills drilled to near-perfection now, the lulls and crescendo’s honed and smoothed so that they have become muscle memory. It’s one of his audition pieces for the Royal Academy and he needs it to be flawless before January. He is almost at the very end of the piece when a loud crash jolts him abruptly out of his reverie. There’s a shout and the door to the practice room swings open with a bang. Harry flinches, withdrawing his hands immediately and crossing them over his abdomen protectively. His gaze darts around furtively before it lands on the apologetic face of the boy stood in the doorway.

 

His eyes are _impossibly_ blue.

 

It’s the first thing that Harry notices, those eyes. They are so blue that they don’t look real, more like doll’s eyes than the eyes of a human-being. They sparkle too, iridescent even in the half-light of the dingy practice room. They are full of light.

 

His initial shock dissipating, Harry realizes that he vaguely recognizes the boy. He’s in the year above Harry and he’s the polar opposite to him: loud and charismatic, the kind of person who fills any room he enters, who exudes a unique, irresistible energy. And he has friends, Harry knows, a lot of friends.

 

“I’m sorry, lad, didn’t mean to disturb you,” he says, nodding vaguely to where Harry sits, cowering slightly, “Me friends were playing a prank on me, thinking they were funny, I bet…” he trails off, apparently registering the way Harry’s looking at him like a terrified wounded animal.

“God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean t’a scare you,” he continues, his voice much gentler now. He takes a few steps into the room and Harry draws back slightly. It’s completely instinctual; Harry doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, but the boy notices immediately, guilt writ plain across his features. Clearly realizing that Harry isn’t going to say anything or even bring himself out of his little protective cocoon, the boy backs away quickly.

“I’m sorry mate, I’ll just uh… guess I’ll just leave you to it. Sorry, again,” he mumbles darting away, the door swinging shut behind him.

 

Harry is alone again, just he and the piano in the dim, musty familiar room. He exhales deeply and takes a few calming breaths _. Shit,_ he thinks to himself, _the boy must think I’m an absolute loser, overreacting like that_. Harry knows that by the next day the whole school would know what a fucking weirdo he was.

 

He was thinking this as though they didn’t already know, he realized. The truth was, he doesn’t have any friends at school except Niall, a buoyant, overly-energetic Irish boy with bleached-blonde hair in his tutor class who’s constantly trying to talk to him or make him laugh. Harry appreciated the effort, he did, but he honestly would just prefer to be left alone. He would almost prefer it if Niall just avoided him like the rest of the school did.

 

Harry was the weird, quiet kid; the one that couldn’t read more than a few words out loud without stuttering and falling quiet, his cheeks ablaze. He was the shy kid, who shut himself in the practice rooms for hours after school to work on his concertos, who dressed weirdly and who used to wear lilac nail polish to school. And as horrible as it had initially been, Harry was used to it by now. He used to get pushed around a bit back in year 10, when all the boys were still just discovering their testosterone, but his complete lack of reaction at the time had meant that the bigger lads had gotten tired of it pretty quickly and moved on, only throwing him the occasional half-hearted insult or slur as they passed him in the hallways. Fag, they called him now. But that’s all, only words. Harry could deal with words, he knew that they couldn’t physically hurt him. And it wasn’t like the insults thrown his ways weren’t true, he was a fag – not that they necessarily knew that for sure. But in any case, nowadays people mostly just left Harry alone, and he figured he was fine with that.

 

Harry shuffled his music on the stand, flipping back to the start and stretched out his tired fingers. Then he began to play from the beginning once again, losing himself once more in the melody.

 

 

\----L----

 

 

Louis felt absolutely awful. It was just so _typical_ of him; heavy handed and brash and obtuse. He couldn’t seem to get the image of the lanky boy staring up at him in sheer terror out of his mind. As he grabbed his lunch bag from the kitchen counter and kissed his mum swiftly on the cheek, he decided that he needed to make it right.

 

He only just makes it to the bus stop on time. One day, Louis would be organized enough to actually arrive at the bus stop in good timing, without having to run there, but today was clearly not that day. As Louis walks down the aisle, he recognizes a familiar mop of chocolate-coloured curls. The piano-room boy has his backpack on his lap and he’s hunched over it, staring vaguely out of the fogged-up bus window, with his earphones in. Louis slides into the seat next to him and shoves his own backpack under his feet. The boy looks up in surprise and then glances over at Louis, recognition dawning quickly. Louis hadn’t seen the boy from close up the day before. He was pale and had a light dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks.

 

His eyes are _impossibly_ green.

 

They were large too, and flecked with gold and he had the widest, plumpest lips Louis had ever seen on a boy. Louis quickly shook himself; realizing that he was probably ogling the poor boy again.

“Hi,” he said, a little stupidly, but with his usual confidence, so he figured it was okay.

 

The boy didn’t reply, but took out his earphones carefully.

 

“I’m Louis,” Louis tried again, holding out his hand.

The boy didn’t take the proffered hand and just stared at it blankly instead.

Louis dropped his hand again and it fell limply to his lap.

 

Finally, the boy spoke. His voice was barely audible, but far deeper than Louis had been expecting. “Why are you here?” he asked.

 

Louis blinked, taken aback.

“Um,” he swallowed, trying to recover, “Look, I, uh… I just felt really bad about yesterday… I really didn’t mean to interrupt or… or anything and I’m uh.. just, sorry,” he finished lamely. Honestly, Louis could kick himself. Where was this complete inability to form coherent sentences coming from all of a sudden?

 

The boy just observed him, and then gave a little shrug, “It’s fine, you don’t need to feel bad.”

 

Then he turned back to the window, putting his earphones back in his ears; clearly signaling an end to the conversation.

 

Louis sat there uncomfortably for the rest of the journey fiddling with his phone, utterly frustrated and confused by the enigma that sat beside him. He would try again tomorrow, he decided, and the next day, if necessary. He would get the lanky boy with the emerald eyes and the chocolate curls to smile if it was the last thing he did. Bit dramatic, Louis thought to himself, but hey, you wouldn’t expect anything less from Louis ‘Tomlinson.

 

 

 

\----H----

 

 

The blue-eyed boy – Louis, Harry corrected himself - sat beside Harry on the bus every morning after that first one for the entire school week. He always seemed eager to talk but Harry would almost immediately shut it down after the requisite polite ‘hi’. However, for some bizarre reason that was completely incomprehensible to Harry, the boy would always return the next day, undeterred and hopeful. Harry wondered what it was that this boy _wanted,_ for goodness’ sake. It’s not that he really minded it per se, it was all just a little odd.

 

On Friday, Louis seemed a bit different from usual. It was nothing tangible in his dress or appearance as such, but he just looked bolder somehow. Harry had noticed that he tended to look a little defeated most of the time, and he assumed it was because of his own silence and reticence to engage, which was probably a foreign experience to Louis. It seemed that today would be slightly different, however.

 

As usual, Louis sat down beside Harry and greeted him, smiling broadly. But this time, when Harry turned away and replaced his earphones, he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. The touch was feather light, and it appeared that Louis must have taken stock of the fact that Harry didn’t much like physical contact. Harry turned slowly back to face him, his eyebrow arched in question,

 

But, surprisingly, Louis didn’t ask Harry a bunch of personal questions, nor did he attempt to make small talk. Instead, he pointed quietly at the left earbud cradled in Harry’s palm.

 

“Can I listen?” he asked, his voice gentle.

 

Harry hesitated. He wasn’t entirely sure about this, wasn’t sure how he felt about doing something as intimate as sharing earphones with a near-stranger, but something inside him inexplicably made him do it. He nodded, his throat tight and handed Louis the earbud, but before he pressed play he mumbled, “Just so you know, you probably won’t like it.”

 

Louis looked at him, a little confused, but didn’t question him any further. Harry pressed play and gazed fixedly at his hands in his lap. The mellow sound of Schubert’s _Serenade_ played through the earphones, and after a few seconds Harry chanced a darting glance at Louis’ face. He looked a little surprised, but he wasn’t sneering or scornful. Harry looked quickly back down at his hands. Every once in a while, he would glance over at Louis, whose expression had turned serene, calm. It wasn’t a facial expression Harry would usually associate with the loud, exuberant presence that was Louis ‘the Tommo’ Tomlinson, but he had to admit, he kind of liked it on him.

 

The 25-minute bus-ride to school passed by unusually quickly that morning, so much so that Harry was disorientated for a few moments when the bus pulled into the school parking lot. Louis carefully removed the earbud from his ear and handed it back to Harry, saying nothing but smiling kindly. When they had both stepped off the bus and were about to head off to their different home rooms, Louis tapped Harry’s shoulder again, his touch once again so light it was barely there.

 

“Thank you for sharing your music with me,” he said.

 

Words stuck in Harry’s throat and he just nodded, a little dumbstruck and a little awkward and very, _very_ out of his depth. Louis smiled and gave him a cheerful little wave, and then was off, slinging his backpack over his left shoulder and making his way towards the Upper Sixth common room.

 

It wasn’t until tutor was over and Harry was on his way to French that he noticed his cheeks were hurting a little. “Hey Harry!” came a familiar cheery voice.

 

Niall beamed at him and clapped him on the shoulder. Harry winced a little but didn’t retreat. He knew with Niall that this was just his way of showing his affection.

 

“Hi Niall,” Harry replied.

 

“What are you so happy about then?” the blonde boy asked. Harry just looked at him, confused, but when he caught his reflection in the window above him he realized that he was grinning.

 

Well, this was certainly new.


	2. Chapter 2: rumination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> So, wow it has been a long time. I've just finished my final year of Uni so it's been beyond hectic but now I'm finally free and have a bit of time to write again.
> 
> This chapter is really just a bit of exposition and getting to know the characters but we'll get into the juicy stuff and the unbearable fluff soon enough I promise! The next few chapters will also be a good deal longer, but I wanted to start getting something out there.
> 
> All my love  
> P  
> x

“I don’t get it, Tommo,” Zayn drawled, handing him the blunt and blowing smoke out lazily, “Seems like an awful lot of effort to go to just because he’s _pretty.”_

 

“It’s not _just_ because he’s pretty… It’s not like that,” Louis snapped defensively, his cheeks flushing crimson. And it was true, he wasn’t just hanging around Harry Styles because he was lovely to look at, even if that paper-thin porcelain skin looked so soft and those lips were so pink and….

Right. No. Well, it was also because Louis recognized something in the boy, some sort of pain, some sort of knowledge that he had hidden behind those verdant eyes. Something terrifying but powerful. He had looked so petrified and vulnerable that first time they had met (well not really _met_ as such, Louis supposed) in the dingy practice room, his arms crossed over himself as though afraid that Louis was going to hurt him. It had scared him a little, Louis had to admit.

 

And then on the bus, the boy had seemed so bewildered as to why Louis could possibly want to talk to him or be his friend, as though it was something he had never seen before, and as though it was something that he didn’t see any genuine motivation for.

 

He had seemed skittish and reserved, and yet on Friday, somehow, miraculously, he had finally smiled at Louis; had allowed Louis to listen to his music with him. For Louis, music was an incredibly personal thing, and letting someone in on that was special, almost intimate. He had had a hunch that this might be the best way to relate to Harry, to show him that he meant him no harm as Harry didn’t seem the type to enjoy sarcastic banter or empty small-talk. Louis was still kind of on a high after Friday’s interaction, even if he was hopelessly trying to convince himself otherwise.

 

Zayn watched as Louis lost himself in thought, cocking an eyebrow and smirking, silently observing. Then he shrugged lazily and intoned, “Whatever you say, Tommo, whatever you say.”

 

Louis took a long drag from the blunt and exhaled deeply, leaning back against the wooden headboard of Zayn’s twin bed. He felt utterly exhausted. It was his last year of school and he was going to have to put in some serious work and stop fucking around if he was going to scrape some decent A levels. His parents’ recent divorce hadn’t helped matters much either, leaving him with even more responsibilities than before. It’s not that he minded looking after his sisters as such, in truth – while he would never admit it to them – he adored them and practically worshipped the ground they walked on, but it _was_ draining and required a huge amount of time, work and responsibility. Jay had had to take on extra shifts again to make ends meet and Louis knew he should probably get a job too, but he had no idea when he was supposed to fit it all in. What with juggling football, school work, his family obligations and his friends, Louis barely had a moment to breathe. It was weird, but this whole thing with Harry – despite it being utterly bizarre and stressful in its own unique way – had been the one thing keeping him going that week.

 

Louis sighed heavily and took another drag before handing the cigarette back to Zayn.

“He’s… he’s just really quiet you know? I don’t think he has many friends and I kind of feel bad for him.” Louis shrugged.

 

Zayn was looking at him in that special way he had where you felt like you were being x-rayed. Louis rolled his eyes. “And _I guess_ it helps that he’s pretty too,” he conceded, averting his eyes but not before he caught a glimpse of Zayn’s smug smirk.

 

“But he’s interesting you know. I think he might be worth getting to know, like, I dunno, there’s so much more there that you don’t see straight away.”

 

Zayn nodded pensively. Truthfully, if anyone could understand that, then it’s be him. He himself had always been reserved and quiet, his personality coming out properly only once he had deemed someone ‘good people’ and started getting to know and trust them. It meant that people passed him over before finding out who he really was, and in Louis’ opinion that was a real shame. They were polar opposites, the two of them, but Zayn was the best and most loyal friend Louis had ever had.

 

“Okay,” Zayn said simply.

 

“As much as he’s…” _gorgeous and I want to marry him and have his babies even if that isn’t biologically possible…_

“-attractive,” Louis admitted, “I think it’s better to just focus on being friends. To be honest, I think he could really use one of those.”

 

Zayn just raised an eyebrow.

 

“Seriously though.”

 

Zayn held his hands up in mock-acquiescence. “Look, I believe you mate. I’m sure your intentions are pure…” Louis snorted and the ends of Zayn’ lips twitched up in a half-grin. “-But you’re going to have to be realistic. And careful, Jesus.”

 

“What do you mean?” Louis asked with a frown.

 

Zayn took another drag of the blunt and exhaled slowly, puffing the smoke out in hazy concentric circles, quite clearly stalling for time.

 

He sighed. “Just that you don’t have the best track record, Lou. I know you and I love you – you’re my best mate – so I know you don’t mean any harm by it, but you tend to get bored with people pretty quickly.”

 

“I didn’t get bored with _you,”_ Louis retorted indignantly.

 

Zayn rolled his eyes exasperatedly. “Come on Louis, you know _exactly_ what I mean. If he’s as… vulnerable as you’ve described, then you’re going to have to tread really carefully, okay?”

 

Louis huffed, still a little indignant, but he knew that Zayn had a point. He would really have to treat this whole situation with kid gloves.

 

“Oh, come here, you big sulk,” Zayn said, rolling his eyes fondly, and Louis immediately moved to sit between Zayn’s legs, resting his head back against the boy’s bony chest. Zayn stroked through Louis’ hair soothingly, and Louis eventually fell asleep there.

 

 

\----H----

 

 

Harry shrugged off his denim jacket, hanging it carefully in the hall wardrobe. He noticed that the heavy corduroy coat and brown boots were still absent, and he breathed a deep sigh of relief. He still had a few hours or so of respite before his stepfather would be home. Slinging his backpack back over his shoulder, he headed into the kitchen, where his mother stood over the stove, stirring a large silver pot and humming softly to herself under her breath.

 

“Hi mum,” Harry said, coming up behind her and kissing her on the cheek.

 

“Hello, love,” she replied, smiling up at him. She was a beautiful woman; her eyes bright and her hair long and shiny, a little darker than Harry’s chocolate curls, but her forehead seemed more lined and more furrowed every time Harry saw her. “Good day at school?”

Harry nodded vaguely and made to tie on an apron to help her. Anne glanced furtively at the clock on the wall and then placed a hand over Harry and murmured, “Thank you love, but I’ve got it all under control. Maybe go get started on some homework?”

 

Harry swallowed and nodded, leaving the frilly apron on the hook where it hung. “Yeah okay, I have some calculus that I’ve got to do,” he murmured.

Anne nodded and smiled tightly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

 

 

When Harry reached his little attic room upstairs, he collapsed back heavily onto his bed, rubbing his eyes. For once, it had actually been a good day at school and he hadn’t had to lie to his mum. For some reason unbeknownst to Harry, Louis was still insisting on sitting next to him on the bus in the mornings, and Harry had to admit that he really didn’t mind it all that much. They had sat together as always – well as they had since the Friday before anyway - sharing Harry’s earphones and listening to _Le cygne_ , when Louis had taken the earbud out of his ear, looking expectantly up at Harry, who had reluctantly mimicked his movements.

“I really like this one,” he had said, his voice genuine, “What is it?”

“It’s um, from Swan Lake?”

“Ah,” Louis had nodded sagely, “Ever think of donning a tutu going into that profession yourself?” he winked.

Harry had blushed furiously, worried that he had said too much and that Louis was making fun of him. _Ponce_ had flashed through his head. _Faggot. Fairy._ All the insults Harry had heard casually tossed his way. He almost pulled away, but then saw that Louis’ expression was gentle; that he was fondly teasing, as opposed to sneering.

 

“Well, I trip over myself when I’m barely walking as it is, I don’t think it would be the best idea for me to start pirouetting across stage, do you?”

Louis had grinned then, big and wide and genuine, his eyes crinkling up at the sides.

“Pity, Styles, with them long limbs of yours, you’d be perfect. A real swan princess.”

“An Albrecht,” Harry had corrected, “And no, I think it’s more likely that I’d just be knocking out people left, right and centre.”

 

Louis had not stopped beaming at him for the rest of the journey, and when they had separated for tutor, he had bent in quietly to murmur: “Have a good day, swan princess. Don’t land anyone in the hospital.”

 

Harry had replayed the conversation over in his head what felt like a thousand times and now he was thinking about it again as he lay there in his cramped bedroom gazing at the join in the ceiling where it slanted sharply down. The low roof hadn’t been a problem when he was younger, but he had shot up last summer and now it felt like he was constantly growing at an alarming rate. It had been a good day, and he had hummed the music of the dying swan – not usually a piece he associated with contentment, but which somehow now he did – on and off for hours. His mind kept drifting back to the twinkle in Louis’ eyes when Harry had joked about tripping over, the crinkle by his eyes, the mischievous grin….

 

Just then, his mobile buzzed and Harry reached for it, confused. The only people who ever texted him were his mum, his piano teacher and occasionally Niall.

 

Harry unlocked the phone to see a text message from a number he didn’t recognize.

 

**_Hi Harry! It’s Louis! I hope you don’t mind, but Niall gave me your number._ **

****

And that’s all it said – no reason for texting, nothing else. And yet somehow, Harry thought he could feel his stomach to a little backflip.

 

_That’s ok. What’s up?_

He answered, unsure of what else he was supposed to say. He knew he was a dull conversationalist, but he had kind of been hoping that Louis would only find that out later down the line. Oh well. Harry tossed his phone back down, not expecting Louis to reply to his inane message. Just a minute later, it buzzed again.

 

**_Nothing much! Just babysitting my sisters atm._ **

**_I know you told me, but I forgot – what was the name of the_ **

**_piece of music this morning?_ **

 

 

Harry stared at his phone screen, baffled. Why on earth would Louis care? Harry was well aware that most people considered his taste in music weird, and while Louis had admittedly been making the effort to listen with Harry on the bus in the mornings, he had assumed this was just him feeling sorry for Harry.

 

_Oh, it’s the dying swan from Swan Lake._

The response was almost immediate.

 

**_Oh yes, of course! Thank you for sharing it with me_ **

****

And that’s all it said. It didn’t really leave space for a response, and Harry didn’t think it really needed one, so clueless as to what to reply he just responded with.

 

_No problem :)_

**_See you on Monday Prince Albrecht :)_ **

****

 

Harry’s insides squirmed a little, but it was a pleasant, warm feeling. Somehow the idea that Louis had remembered that morning’s conversation, had actually cared enough to remember…. It made his insides go all light and fluttery. Harry put his phone down and laid his head back against this pillow. This was all really bizarre and certainly very new territory for him. It didn’t make sense – Louis, who was so popular, the Louis Tomlinson, captain of the football team and always surrounded by friends and admires – paying attention to weird Harry Styles. He almost laughed out loud at the sheer cliché of the situation, the similarity it bore to a cheesy nineties coming-of-age rom-com. He couldn’t understand Tomlinson’s reasoning, but he figured he could let himself have this one. God knows he could do with a little lightness and laughter.

 

“Harry!” yelled a familiar gruff voice.

 

Harry jolted, abruptly torn from his reverie. He felt his stomach twist involuntarily; but it was nothing like the heady feeling of before. It was the nauseating gut-reaction he experienced every time he heard his step-father’s voice. Harry sighed and sat up quickly, knowing it was better to go downstairs straight away than to make him wake. Heading to the door of his tiny room, he breathed a deep sigh and stole himself to go downstairs and well, face the music.


	3. Outnumbered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> Once again, so sorry for how long this took me. In other news, just graduated Uni so there's that!
> 
> Some important chats happen in this chapter. That's it, that's the summary. The dramz, as I keep saying, is coming soon.
> 
> And, I haven't said this yet so :
> 
> This is obviously fictional and had nothing whatsoever to do with the lives of actual people. 
> 
> So much love,  
> P  
> x

 - - HARRY - - 

 

Harry took the last bite of his banana before throwing the peel into the little bin by his feet. He stretched his arms up above his head, his spine clicking disconcertingly loudly and then dropped his arms shrugging his shoulders a few times, trying to shrug out all the built-up tension. He sighed and shuffled the stool closer to the piano. While he was in here, he may as well get some practice in, he thought. It was lunch time, Harry’s least favourite part of the school day; the time where bullies and testosterone had free reign and those at the top of the proverbial popularity food-chain ruled the cafeteria. Usually, he would sit with Niall at lunch, which offered him some protection. People liked Niall as a general rule, so they usually left Harry alone. But Niall was off school today and as such, Harry had no desire whatsoever to sit alone in the cafeteria, knowing he would be a sitting target there. So he was doing what he always did when Niall was away, and what he used to do before they met, come to think of it. He sat alone in the quiet, musty practice room and ate his meagre packed lunch in peace. He liked the quiet familiarity of it; the knowledge that he would always find the room in the same state.

 

Today he was working on the _Gaspard de la Nuit_ , an exceptionally tricky piece that seemed designed to catch its pianist out. Out of his three audition pieces, this was the one that was causing him the most grief as he just couldn’t seem to get it to sound right. After weeks of frustratedly drilling each section over and over until his fingers ached, he had finally begun to master all the intricate technical elements, but the second he tried to add some dynamics and feeling into the mix, it got all confused again. His fingers flitted deftly across the keyboard, and he reached a hand up to turn the page with practiced ease and precision. It was going slightly better today.

 

He was so consumed in the music that he didn’t hear the gentle knocking at first, but when it grew louder and firmer, his fingers froze. He retracted them from the keyboard and glanced towards the door.

 

“Uhh… who is it?” he called, his voice hoarse from underuse.

“It’s Louis,” came a familiar dulcet voice.

Harry could feel a little smile stretch his cheeks and blushed at his own ridiculousness. It seemed to have become something of an instinct now, his dopey grin when he saw Louis or heard his voice.

“Um… you can come in,” he called out.

 

The door opened to Louis, who looked a bit ruffled, dark rings beneath his eyes and a definite droop to his shoulders, but he was smiling nonetheless. Not his nonchalant confident grin that he used around his friends, and not the special eye-crinkling one either, but a tentative, almost shy one. Well, this was certainly a new colour on Louis “the Tommo” Tomlinson, Harry thought to himself with a tinge of amusement.

“Can I…?” he asked again, gesturing towards the centre of the room, and Harry nodded.

“Yeah of course.”

 

Louis walked towards him, less hesitant now, pulling up the other stool and sitting down opposite Harry, close enough that Harry could see the piercing blue of his eyes but not too close as to make him draw away in discomfort.

 

“It sounded good,” Louis began, gesturing in the general direction of the piano.

Harry could feel himself blushing. “Not really,” he sighed, “not yet.”

Louis’ gaze was so direct that Harry had to look away, so he turned back to his sheet music, straightening out the pages for something to do.

 

“I’m sorry, I – I can go if you want… I didn’t mean to interrupt you, I was just walking past and I heard the playing and I thought it might be you because I didn’t see you in the cafeteria and….”

Harry turned to look at Louis again, rather taken aback by his nervous babbling. I mean, that was usually Harry’s thing wasn’t it? Louis was confident, suave, self-assured. Captain of the football team. Most popular boy in the sixth form. Harry was even more taken aback to see his cheeks tinged with pink.

 

It came out of his mouth before he could stop it, “You sound like me.”

Louis froze, his mouth forming a little ‘O’ shape. For a second, nothing happened. Then, Louis broke into laugher, his eyes crinkling.

 

Harry grinned, unsure of what was happening. This was utterly foreign territory to him, but for some reason he felt okay about it.

 

“Quite the little comedian then, huh?” Louis grinned. “A triple threat. Piano, dancing and comedy.”

“Hey, I never said I could dance. In fact, I _expressly_ remember telling you that I _can’t_ dance and probably shouldn’t for the sake of anyone in the immediate vicinity.”

Louis grinned even wider and shrugged.

“Well, you’re not that funny either so there you go, just a one-trick pony after all.”

 

“Heeeeeeeey,” Harry protested in mock outrage, pouting and crossing his arms.

Louis shook his head and conceded, “Alright, alright, you’re a certified comedic genius.”

 

“Thank you” Harry retorted in a sing-song voice.

 

His heart was fluttering and he was finding it really difficult to look at Louis for such extended periods so he turned pack to the piano, picking up a pencil and writing in a note here and there on the sheet music.

 

“So, why then?”

 

“Why then what?” Harry asked confused, turning back to face him again.

 

“Why do you think it isn’t good enough yet?”

 

Harry reflected for a moment. He could lie, fob Louis off, say it was nothing. It was his usual modus operandi, as he knew people who asked him questions about his music didn’t actually care about the answer but were just being polite. He wasn’t sure why Louis was so interested or indeed _if_ he was actually interested in Harry’s answer, but he figured he might as well just tell him. There was something inviting in his face, warm and open. Non-judgemental. Louis had come looking for him, after all.

 

“It’s hard. Like, super hard. But that’s not it – it’s like….” He furrowed his brow, casting around for the right words, “even if or when I get it technically perfect, there’s just something missing you know, it just sounds a bit like…. Nothing at the moment.”

 

Louis nodded pensively. He looked like he was actually considering what Harry had just said, mulling it over. He was probably just being polite, Harry reminded himself.

 

“Well, do you feel anything when you play it?”

 

Harry stopped short. “Uhhh…”

 

He fell silent. He thought it over.

 

“Other than, ‘Sweet Jesus this is impossible’…. I mean, not really.”

 

Louis grinned again. “Well that’s the problem then,” he answered simply, as though it were just as easy as that. “Maybe you just need to play something else.”

 

Harry was a little dumfounded.

 

“I can’t though,” he said, “It’s one of my audition pieces for Julliard.”

 

“But couldn’t you just choose another piece?”

 

“I can’t,” Harry said, a little exasperated now, “This is one of the most technically difficult pieces for piano out there. I need it to stand out in my audition.”

 

Louis considered this for a moment.

 

“But,” he replied, seemingly weighing his words carefully before he said them, “If, as you say, there’s something missing and it sounds like ‘nothing’ – your words, not mine – is it really going to make you stand out?”

 

Harry stopped short. Louis actually had a fair point there.

 

“I suppose not,” he answered, frowning slightly.

 

‘Is there something else you could play maybe? Like something you connect to?” Louis asked, brow furrowed. Harry was a little startled at how seriously he was taking the whole thing. Nobody, except perhaps his mum – and of course his dad, when he had been alive – had ever expressed as much interest into his music. It was a good feeling, he decided.

 He pondered over Louis’ question for a minute. He did have that one piece…. But no, he knew that original compositions almost never did well in auditions. And besides, he hadn’t played it for ages. It always drew out too much from him, left him feeling emotionally raw. He had always thought it too revealing, as though the notes explicity spelled out the words he couldn’t actually say.

 

And yet…. There was something about the quiet magic of the moment. The muffled monotonous pattering of rain against the little window, the dimly lit room, the way Louis sat across from him, completely attentive. It felt private, intimate even. He supposed it couldn’t hurt to play it for Louis.

 

Harry took a deep breath and positioned his hands over the keys. He began to play.

 

Just as he had expected, as he moved further and further into the melody, the memories and the emotions surfaced unbidden. He tried to clear his mind, focus on the chords but it was no use – he would never be able to detach the melody from its meaning.

 

What felt like hours later – but what was, in reality only a couple of minutes – Harry finished, placing his hands on his thighs, not removing his eyes from the keyboard. When he finally looked around, it was to see Louis with a funny expression on his face.

 

“You hate it,” Harry said immediately.

 

Louis exhaled deeply. “No, quite the opposite actually. That was wonderful, Harry” he beamed.

 

Harry could feel himself blushing again. “You know, you don’t have to say that, just bec…”

 

“No seriously, Harry, you need to give yourself more credit. It was incredibly, it felt like… I dunno,” Louis seemed to cast around for the words, “this is going to sound right sappy, but…. Like you were telling a story or… or summat.”

 

Louis’ cheeks were also faintly pink.

 

Harry’s insides felt pleasantly warm and squirmy. He felt at once, awkward and embarrassed and yet rather pleased. He beamed back at Louis.

 

And then suddenly, they were both ripped unceremoniously from the spell they had both apparently been under by the grating ring of the school bell, indicating the end of lunch.

 

“Shit.” Louis jumped up, “I’ve got to get to English,” he said apologetically. He made his way to the door.

“Louis,” Harry called out.

“Yeah?” he turned around, his eyebrow raised in question.

“Um.. thank you… for your ….uh help,” Harry mumbled, embarrassed.

“That’s okay,” Louis replied, “I’m sorry if I was a nuisance.”

“No, you weren’t at all,” Harry said, a little too quickly, and then blushed furiously.

Louis ducked his head. “Cool” he half-whispered, “See you around Harry.”

 

And he left the dark little room, leaving Harry to pack up his bag quickly, as he too was going to be late for class.

 

 

The rain pelted unrelentingly against the windows as Harry stared dreamily out at the grey winter sky outside. Mr Matthews was reading out answers or explaining something – Harry wasn’t quite sure, given that he wasn’t actually listening. He felt pleasantly warm and tingly. He couldn’t stop replaying the magic hour in the Piano Room with Louis. How strangely peaceful it had still been, despite having somebody else invade Harry’s usually solitary space, something Harry would have hated had it been anyone else. How comfortable he had felt, how easily he had revealed something that he had kept hidden for so long. Louis’ open, kind face listening attentively to Harry’s answers. His dark lashes fanning across the sharp cheekbones when he blinked in concentration. The way his brow crinkled when he was deep in thought….

 

“Styles?”

 

“Uh… what?” Harry looked around. There was a little ripple of laughter across the classroom.

Mr Matthews stood with his arms crossed, an eyebrow raised. Harry realized he must have missed the question.

 

“I was asking whether you could please give your answer for number seven,” Mr Matthews continued coolly.

 

Harry glanced down quickly at his open exercise book, scanning the page for the answer and found it scribbled in the left hand margin, “Oh um yeah… it’s negative y over x.”

 

Mr Matthews made a kind of ‘hmpph’ sound. “Yes, correct.” He moved on. Harry knew he wasn’t actually that cross; Mr Matthews was incredibly patient and had a bit of a soft spot for Harry. Given that he always got top marks anyway, Harry figured that he couldn’t really be _too_ annoyed about his lack of concentration. Harry allowed his mind to drift off again, while keeping one ear attentive, just in case he got called on to answer again.

 

He genuinely considered the possibility of scrapping the _Gaspard_ and going with something original instead. He shook his head. He knew that was impossible; there was a formula for getting into the Royal Academy and Harry would be well advised to stick to it. Harry liked formulas, liked rules. It was probably why he usually enjoyed maths so much, his current distracted state notwithstanding. He had always found maths came naturally to him, had never had to put very much effort into it. It had been commented before how strange it was that Harry was able to have both a musical and a mathematical mind. Maths felt safe, sure. It was simple, Harry thought: you follow the rules, input the formulas and computed the results. There was no creativity involved, no emotion or originality. Unlike music, he sighed inwardly. Music was complicated and fickle; a piece could sound beautiful one time and horrendous the next. There were notes and sheet music to follow, sure, but no definite formula, no foolproof way to attain the exact outcome desired.

 

Ten minutes later, the bell rang. Harry slung his backpack over his shoulder, still slightly zoned out and headed towards the door.

 

“Styles?” came Mr Matthews voice again.

 

Harry stopped in his tracks and looked over at the teacher, seated behind his desk. He didn’t look angry. Harry wondered if he was about to get in trouble.

 

“Can I have a quick word?” he asked, as the last of the class trickled out of the door.

 

“Um, ok,” Harry replied, a fraction nervously.

 

“Sit down,” Mr Matthews said kindly, gesturing towards the chair opposite his desk. Harry sat, clasping his hands tightly in his lap and worrying his lip.

 

Mr Matthews, took off his glasses, folded them and put them down on his messy desk beside a cup of half-drunk cold coffee and an open textbook.

 

“You can relax, Harry,” he added, when he took in Harry’s anxious appearance. “You’re not in trouble.”

 

Harry exhaled, relieved. He hadn’t had a one-on-one talk to Mr Matthews for quite some time, probably not since the start of his GCSE year and he noticed that he looked older, tired, the lines around his eyes and mouth more deeply-etched. He was greying slightly, but his warm smile stayed the same. Harry wondered if the teacher like himself, had had a hard year.

 

The man interlaced his fingers and began:“So, Harry, I won’t keep you long. You’re not in trouble for not paying attention or anything like that, but I am concerned that you are. Zoning out, that is.”

 

Harry felt a dull stab of what he was sure was guilt. Mr Matthews had been his favourite teacher ever since he started at this school, and he didn’t really like disappointing him.

 

“The thing is Harry, this syllabus is too basic for you. Most people seriously struggle with the jump from GCSE to AS Level Maths, but you’ve sailed through. I was wondering what you thought of taking further maths instead? You’d still take the occasional standard class and you’d take the exam as well, but hours of this would be cut down and you could focus on something that’s much more your level.”

 

Harry’s eyes widened in surprise. He wasn’t sure exactly what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t this.

 

“I’m already full up on subjects, unfortunately Sir” Harry replied after a bit. "I think further maths classes clash with French.”

 

Mr Matthews nodded, as though he had been expecting this answer.

 

“I thought that might be the case. How would you feel about doing one-on-one lessons? Perhaps we can work it out so I can take you in some of your free periods?”

 

Harry thought about it. On one hand, he appreciated how generous the teacher was being. He also knew he would really enjoy it, but there was something stopping him from accepting the offer. The truth was, he couldn’t afford to take any more time away from his music.

 

“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” he replied after a pause.

 

“It’s not a chore, if that’s what you think. The truth is Harry, I haven’t seen a kid as gifted as you in quite some time. I enjoy teaching you, and I would hate for you to let it go to waste.”

 

Harry felt awful.

 

“Is it okay if I take some time to think about it?” he asked finally.

 

“Of course,” Mr Matthews nodded, “You’ll need to let me know by the end of next week though.”

 

Harry nodded and picked his back-pack up again.

 

“Off you go then, don’t want you to be late for your next class,” he said.

 

Harry mumbled a quick goodbye and hurried out of the classroom, eyes trained on the ground and deep in thought. The truth was he  _did_ want to accept, but could see no way around it. The dream was the Royal Academy, and neither he nor his mum would let anything else get in the way of that. Worse, Mr Matthews didn’t know the whole truth of it. If he succeeded in his audition next May, it meant that he wouldn’t be back at school for his A level year. He didn’t dare telling him that though.

 

Harry headed off to psychology, still utterly consumed by his thoughts. So much so that he wasn’t looking where he was going and suddenly felt himself bump into someone.

“oof, sorry, I…”

 

“Watch where you’re going, princess,” spat Stan, glaring down at him. There were a few smug guffaws from his minions, Oli and Calvin, who were loitering around the nearby lockers.

 

“Sorry,” Harry said again and ducked his head again, making to walk away, but he felt a strong hand grip the front of his jumper and then felt himself being slammed into a locker.

 

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, you prissy little faggot,” Stan snarled, his purple face inches from Harry’s. Harry had no idea what had incensed him so much. Stan had mostly left him alone the last few months, barring the occasional snide comment or slur. There was something furious in his eyes, something almost rabid.

 

Harry knew from experience not to fight back, knew that he just had to keep quiet and not react, so that Stan would get bored and let him go.

 

“Oi, get off him, Lucas, or I’ll bench you,” came a familiar voice.

 

Harry looked around frantically. Sure enough, there was Louis, striding towards them, his expression a mixture of shock and fury.

 

Stan paused, seeming to consider this for a moment, and apparently deeming it a threat worth avoiding, regretfully let Harry go.

 

Harry was so ashamed, couldn’t look at Louis, couldn’t _believe_ he had seen him like this, so he fled down the corridor away from the boys. It was the opposite direction to where he needed to be going, but in that moment, he did not care.

 

 

\- - LOUIS - -

 

The rain had mercifully cleared up in time for practice, but the sky was still grey and ominously cloudy, so it seemed unlikely that they would make it to the end of the session. Louis arrived at the pitch early and ran a few laps, using the time to think and try to clear his mind. Ruuning always helped him to process his emotions; the familiar dull ache of stiff muscles, the easing of the tightness in his chest. He felt angry, first and foremost and also kind of heartbroken. He kept replaying the look of utter resignation and acceptance on Harry’s face, as though this kind of thing were par for the course, as though he were immune to the insult by now. It terrified Louis to think how much of this he must already have suffered to react so calmly. He swore under his breath and sped up. It felt good, the icy wind tearing through his hair and biting at his exposed skin. He relished the burn inside his lungs as he pushed faster, faster. This kind of pain, he could handle.

 

As he saw a handful of boys saunter on to the pitch, chatting amongst themselves, he slowed his pace to a jog. Louis noticed that Stan was not among them. He had clearly not dared to show his face at practice. _Good_ , Louis thought bitterly. He was a little worried what he would have done to Stan, given the opportunity.

 

‘Hiya Tommo,” called Liam, one of his best friends  - and best players – on the team.

 

“Hey Payno” he called out, “Y’alright?”

 

 

 

 

Half an hour into practice, it started to rain again. They continued for another ten minutes until it became clear that it was just getting heavier and Coach finally blew the whistle.

 

“Alright, let’s call it a day then, lads!” he yelled through the opaque curtain of rain, and the group of muddy, sodden boys trudged back to the warmth of the changing rooms, grumbling and swearing.

 

Louis was about to follow when something – or someone, rather, caught his eye. A tall figure stood a little way away on the other end of the pitch. Louis recognized the characteristic droop of the shoulders and the stance with one leg crossed behind the other, and he jogged over, confused.

 

“Harry, what are you doing he-?” Louis stopped short. Harry was absolutely drenched. His curly hair was matted and stuck to his face, water dripping down his cheeks. Louis was unsure whether it was from the rain or if Harry was crying. Judging by the bloodshot tinge to Harry’s eyes, it could be a bit of both.

 

“Jesus, Harry, why are you out in the rain?”

 

Harry opened his mouth to reply and then shut it again. He didn’t move, just stood there as the rain continued to pelt down relentlessly.

 

“Harry,” Louis repeated, more firmly this time, “You can’t just stand out here, you’re absolutely soaked. You need to go home.”

 

A look of… terror maybe?  - Louis couldn’t quite define it, crossed Harry’s face and he shook his head vehemently.

 

Alright, Louis thought to himself, this was not going to be easy.

“Alright then, but you can’t stay out here,” Louis considered for a moment. Harry clearly didn’t want to go home for some reason unbeknownst to him, but Louis couldn’t let him stay at school like this, sodden and shivering. He was likely to catch pneumonia if he stood out here much longer: it was Novermber and as such, far too cold to be hanging around in wet clothes. Louis made a decision.

 

“Alright then, not home, but you’re coming back to mine. Get you some dry clothes,” Louis said firmly, turning slightly and starting to walk, hoping, praying that Harry would follow.

 

Harry looked unsure for a moment, but then he begin to follow behind as Louis headed back to the changing rooms to pick up his bags.

 

 _What the hell was he doing out here?_ Louis thought to himself. He didn’t dare ask though; it was clear Harry wasn’t in a state for lucid discussion. Louis ducked into the changing room as quickly as he could and grabbed his bag , not stopping to chat with his team, then returned to the muddy pitch to find Harry stood silent, his head bowed, curled in on himself.

“Come on, Harry,” Louis urged, his voice uncharacteristically soft. Harry nooded, silent and pliant and allowed himself to be led wordlessly.

 

They thankfully only had to wait about five minutes for the bus to arrive. Harry slid to the very edge of the seat away from Louis and stared out of the rain-soaked window, his upper body turned slightly away. He stayed like that until they arrived at Louis’ stop fifteen minutes later.

 

Louis, who had let him be until that point, nudged him gently. “Hey,” he said softly, “This is our stop.”

 

Harry nodded and followed Louis off the bus and up the road to the slightly dilapidated red-brick house where Louis lived with his mum and four sisters, still completely silent. Louis felt uneasy. Had this been the right thing to do? But then he shook himself. He was being ridiculous. Harry had clearly not been okay, and there had been little chance to convince him to go home of his own accord.

He unlocked the door and ushered the soaking Harry inside, kicking off his cleats.

 

Inside the warmth of the house, he turned to Harry and reached out carefully for his hand to squeeze it. It was freezing. Harry didn’t pull away, thank god.

 

“Hey, curly, are you alright?” Louis asked, careful not to grasp too tight. He wanted to. He wanted to shake Harry, ask him what the hell he had been doing, why he seemed so intent on making himself ill. Why he wouldn’t say a word. But he didn’t.

 

Harry finally met Louis’ eyes. They were puffy and red and brimming anew with unshed tears. Clearly the incident with Stan had affected him far more than he had let on at the time. He gave just the faintest whisper of a smile at the nickname and swallowed.

 

“Yeah,” he finally answered, his voice raspy and quiet.

 

“Good,” Louis answered sincerely and squeezed his hand again. “I’m going to get you a towel and some warm clothes to change into, and you have a shower to warm up,” he told Harry, leading him to the little bathroom he shared with Lottie.

“What about you? Don’t you need to shower?” Harry asked quietly.

 

“Nice to know I stink,” Louis teased gently. It wasn’t particularly funny, but Harry smiled faintly, his cheeks dimpling and Louis felt a warm, satisfied glow in his chest.

 

“Nah, I’ll shower in the twins’ bathroom,” he clarified, as he rummaged in the linen closest for a towel. “There you go,” he added, handing Harry a fluffy faded pink towel. It had belonged to Fizzy, once.

 

Louis gestured encouragingly towards the poky bathroom he shared with Lottie and headed off to take a quick shower of his own.

 

Under the soothing warm spray, he felt the tension in his shoulders ease slightly. It had been a weird day. And now he had Harry in his house, sopping wet and clearly feeling vulnerable and upset. Louis just hoped he had made the right decision bringing him back. He realized it was a bit – intimate. Louis liked to think they were friends now, but it was really hard to tell with Harry.  The truth was when he saw the boy standing forlornly across the field, he had felt the breath knocked out of him, a sudden overwhelming need to protect overcoming him. Harry’s terrified, bloodshot and beseeching eyes had made his mind up for him, really. There was no way Louis could have left him behind to catch pneumonia.

 

Once thoroughly washed and warmed up, Louis stepped out of the shower, dried himself off and wrapped the towel around his waist. His hair was getting too long he thought, as he shook the wet tendrils from his face. He had started wearing a headband to keep it out of his face when he played football. It badly needed cutting but Louis didn’t think he could spare the money or the time for a haircut at the moment. He sighed and headed back to his room, when he got there, rifling through his messy drawers for a jumper and some joggers. Harry still hadn’t come out of the bathroom, but Louis didn’t let himself worry yet. He realized then that he hadn’t taken any clothes out for Harry, and knowing how shy and reserved he was, realized that perhaps Harry wouldn’t feel comfortable coming out in just a towel. He went back to the drawers and pulled out a t-shirt and joggers for Harry as well and on second thought added his oversized lilac jumper. The jumper had been gifted to him by an aunt or uncle, that had clearly not known Louis’ size, as it was far too big, billowing out at the sides, the sleeves hanging town over the tips of his fingers. It was a pity as it was incredibly soft and a lovely colour. Louis thought it would probably look perfect on Harry. It was a lovely jumper, and after all, Harry too was very lovely.

 

Louis knocked politely on the bathroom door. Clearing his throat, he called out: “Um.. Harry?I have some clothes for you.”

A second later the door opened just the tiniest crack and Harry’s face poked out. He already looked much better, his eyes less bloodshot. Louis held out the pile of clothes, unsure of what to say next. He was rather distracted by the lovely way that a wet curl was falling over Harry’s eye.

Harry took the clothes gratefully and closed the door behind him.

 

Five minutes later, Harry poked his head around Louis’ bedroom door. Louis patted the bed beside him. Harry looked unsure, as though he weren’t sure it was a good idea to be somewhere as personal as Louis’ room, but Louis continued to smile encouragingly, and Harry eventually perched on the end of the little twin bed. Louis had been right, the lilac jumper really suited him. It was even a little long on him, too, but for some reason it looked endearing and not as if he was drowning, which was – he had been told by Lottie – how Louis himself looked when he wore it.

 

Harry was quiet, picking at the sleeves of the jumper. Suddenly he said, “Thank you,” he turned pink and continued in a mumble, “I mean, like for being so kind. You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

 

Louis shrugged. “I know. But I wanted to. We’re friends,” he said simply. There was another pause, and when Harry didn’t add anything Louis asked, “Would you like a cuppa?”

 

Harry nodded eagerly and trailed Louis as he made his way to the little kitchen.

Louis busied himself preparing two cups of strong Yorkshire tea, and rummaged in the cupboard for a packet of half-eaten chocolate digestives he knew he had left there. When everything was ready he handed Harry his cup with another encouraging smile, and took his own and the biscuits to the living room table. Harry perched carefully on the end of the settee, as Louis flopped down with an appreciate ‘ooompf’ into the old, sagging couch.

 

“Biscuit?” he offered. Harry took one and nibbled at the edge of it.

 

The two of them sat in silence for a little. It wasn’t awkward, just kind of peaceful, Louis supposed. He knew that at some point he was going to have to ask Harry what had been going on. It was such a difficult balance to strike though, he thought. He wanted to help Harry, to be there for him, to show him that he cared and wanted to help. But at the same time, he held no claim over the boy. They were friends, he liked to think, but even so, the things going on in Harry’s life seemed serious and intensely personal and Louis was terrified of crossing an invisible line that would scare Harry away. It had kept Louis up at night several times, wondering what was going on with him. He had considered possibilities, mulled them over, rethought and analyzed and hypothesized and had inevitably ended up frustrated and upset. Whatever it was, wasn’t something he could just ask out right. Harry clearly was intensely shy and uncomfortable with too much physical proximity. He no longer shied away when Louis touched him, although he wasn’t always quick enough to hide the initial shock and panic on his face when it happened.

 

Louis desperately wanted to know. For Harry, of course, so he could help. But also, a little selfishly for himself, because he so desperately wanted to understand. The thing was though, Louis knew that for Harry, the best was not to pry, just to try and show him that he could trust Louis.

 

The silence was finally broken. “Louis.”

Harry’s voice was stronger than earlier, no longer a hoarse, terrified whisper. The tea and warm clothing seemed to have helped.

 

“Yeah?” replied Louis.

 

“So, I think I owe you a … an explanation, I guess.”

 

“You don’t owe me anything, Harry. I didn’t want you to get sick, so I helped you out. I’d do it for any of my friends.” _None of my friends are like you though,_ is what he didn’t say. He didn’t feel that undeniable urge to protect with his other friends. No one was quite like Harry.

 

“That’s kind of you, Lou. I didn’t mean it like that though.” His voice was solid now.

He spoke with a kind of confidence Louis hadn’t heard from him before.

 

“I want to. And I want to, because for some reason, you’ve been so kind. So I think it’s only fair.”

 

Louis was bewildered but he didn’t interrupt. He sensed Harry was gearing himself up to say something important.

 

“The truth is… that when I first met you, that first day you sat next to me on the bus, I was confused and honestly I didn’t trust you. I thought-“ he ducked his head as though he were ashamed of what he was saying, “I thought you were making fun of me; maybe that you were doing it as some kind of prank or bet for your friends.”

 

Louis’ jaw dropped. “Harry, I think you’re watching far too many romcoms,” he said firmly. “This isn’t ‘She’s all that’ you know!”

 

Harry smiled.

 

“Yeah, but then I guess, as time went on I realized you weren’t going anyway.”

 

“That you’re stuck with me.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Harry’s face softened noticeably. The expression on his face was so raw, so intimate, Louis wanted to look away.

 

He cleared his throat.

 

Harry shook himself. “Yeah, well, as I was saying. I thought it was all some cruel prank. Like, look lets be honest here, Lou. You’re the captain of the football team, you’re one of the most popular boys at school and in the year above… it didn’t make any sense that you would want to be friends with me.”

 

But it made all the sense in the world, Louis thought, how could Harry not see that? He made to interrupt, But Harry stopped him, saying firmly, “Just let me finish what I’ve got to say.” Louis nodded.

 

“But yeah, as I said, as time went on I figured that maybe you weren’t trying to trick me. And, god, this is going to sound so lame…. But the truth is, I don’t really have friends. I have Niall, but Niall has so many other friends. So, I guess, it was just so weird that we were becoming… that. Friends. Weird, but also nice, I guess.”

 

Harry took a deep breath. “Which was why I reacted the way I did today. With Stan. When I saw you, I couldn’t stand the idea that of you seeing, of you finding out…”

 

Harry’s face was hard now, bitter even. His tone had hardened too.

 

“That that’s who I am.”

 

Louis tried to take it all in.

 

 

“So, just so I’m understanding… you were embarrassed that I saw the way Stan treated Harry. God, Harry…” That’s so messed up, he thought, but didn’t say. How could he possibly think that Louis would judge Harry for what had happened. Sure, he had been shocked at how Harry had taken it so easily, as though it were an everyday occurrence. But not for one second had he judged Harry for it.

 

“Harry, I would never, ever think any less of you for that, do you understand me?” Louis asked. It was imperative that Harry understand this.

 

Louis shuffled closer to Harry and held out his palm. After a moment of hesitation, Harry rested his hand in his. Louis’ heart leapt. He took it as permission to continue.

 

“I was just furious at Stan. I knew he had issues, we fell out a couple years ago because of…well something similar.”

 

The truth was, Stan had once been Louis’ best mate. They had been friends from childhood, their mothers had been friends, their siblings knew each other. But one day, Louis’ world had come crashing down when he had overheard Stan’s homophobic vitriol. That time it had just been him going off about something that had happened, what exactly Louis couldn’t quite remember. Louis had confronted him about him, but Stan hadn’t seen anything wrong with it at the time. Louis hadn’t been out at the time – he still wasn’t really, only to his family and closest friends – but that had been it for him. He couldn’t be friends with someone who hated such an integral part of who he was.

 

That had been two years prior. Last year, Stan had come to him and apologized, said that he understood what he had said was wrong and that he had changed. They had never been close again, but they buried the hatchet and Louis thought Stan had changed.

 

Apparently not.

 

“Please, don’t be embarrassed. Especially not around me.” He squeezed Harry’s hand gently.

 

Harry was crying again.

 

“Shit, sorry, I’m being so pathetic,” he cursed, wiping the tears away angrily.

 

He took his hand back and continued, his voice much quieter now.

 

“The thing though, is that he’s right.”

 

‘Wha.. Harry, what the fuck? Don’t say that!”

 

“What he’s saying it’s true… I am a faggot,” he finished bitterly.

 

 

Harry wasn’t looking at him, but that was okay. What he was saying was…. God it was fucking hard. And it was taking a lot of strength, Louis could tell. He just wanted to pull Harry in and squeeze him tight. Kiss away the salty tears as they fell. Stroke his still-damp hair and promise it would be okay, that he would make it okay. He couldn’t though, and he would just have to be okay with that.

 

“Harry, can you look at me please?” he asked instead.

 

With what seemed like a great deal of effort, Harry looked at Louis. His face was streaked with tears, but he seemed defiant, as though challenging Louis to make fun of him.

 

“Please don’t say that about yourself, okay. What Stan did was horrible and violent and there is absolutely no excuse for that. If what you’re saying is… If what I’m understanding is that… you’re, um, gay…”

 

Harry’s jaw tensed visibily and he gave a curt nod.

 

“… Then you should know, I absolutely do not think any less of you. If anything, I’m kind of touched that you would share that with me.”

 

Louis wasn’t sure what reaction Harry had been expecting, but clearly it hadn’t been this. Did Harry really think so little of Louis still?

 

“Do you… are you just saying that?”

 

“No! Harry, God.,” said Louis, frustrated. “There’s nothing wrong with it, okay? I’m really proud of you for telling me.”

 

Harry’s face finally broke, his defiant expression replaced with one of relief and something else Louis couldn’t put his finger on.

 He let out a strangled sob.

 

Louis sat immobile for a moment, paralyzed in indecision, then chose, resolute.

 

He leant forward and wrapped Harry firmly in his arms. Harry was stiff for a moment, but then his whole body went lax and pliant against Louis’ and he buried his face into Louis’ jumper, still crying.

 

“Hey, it’s okay, love,” Louis soothed, rubbing Harry’s back gently.

 

Eventually, after what felt like no time at all, Harry pulled back, sniffing and wiping his eyes.

 

“Sorry for ruining your jumper,” Harry said ruefully.

 

Louis grinned. “Ain’t no thing,” he responded.

 

“Thank you,” Harry repeated quietly. He wasn’t referring to the jumper.

 

“Of course,” Louis murmured.

 

“Harry? I don’t want to overstep here but… does anyone else know?” Louis asked.

 

Harry shook his head. “I haven’t expressly told anyone, but I think my mum knows. And probably, Niall.”

 

God, Louis thought. Harry’s first coming out.

 

“Okay,” Louis replied.

 

 

They sat close, closer than Harry had ever been, but he seemed to emotionally exhausted to care about the proximity. If anything, he seemed to really need it. He curled into Louis’ side as they watched a nature documentary. He giggled at Louis’ impression of David Attenborough – even though it was appalling, or maybe because it was appalling and managed to have another biscuit. They watched the rerun of a Friends episode that came on next. They didn’t really talk anymore, but that was okay. Louis occasionally ran a soothing hand over Harry’s hair.

 

Halfway through the next episode, Harry suddenly jolted upright. “Shit!”

 

Louis started. He had never heard Harry swear.

 

“What’s up?” he asked, a little disorientated.

 

“It’s almost 9 - I need to get home!”

 

Louis thought back to how panicked Harry had looked when Louis first suggested that Harry go home, out on the sodden football pitch. They still hadn’t talked about that – Harry coming out had kind of overshadowed everything else.

 

“Alright, well the bus should be coming in about ten minutes so-“

 

“My clothes-“

 

“I’ll get them washed and dried and give them back to you at school.”

 

“But-“ Harry protested. He looked a little panicked.

 

“Harry, your stuff is still wet, you can’t go home in wet clothes,” Louis said reasonably.

 

Harry seemed to accept this. He started to pull off the jumper. “At least take your jumper back,” Harry said, “I feel bad taking it with me-“

 

“No, Harry,” said Louis firmly, “It looks better on you anyway.”

 

Finally, Harry seemed to accept it. “Alright” he nodded.

 

Ten minutes later, Louis waved goodbye to Harry, his heart somehow simultaneously heavy and bright.


End file.
